


The Resident Detainee

by Tempest_Wind



Series: A Return, A Trap, Another Fall [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Series 3, Speculation, The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez, The Adventure of the Resident Patient, The Kandahar Massacre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tempest_Wind/pseuds/Tempest_Wind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in prison, leading to a spiral of other problems. With Molly's questionable alliance, Mary's worsening condition, and an unsettling threat looming overhead, John finds himself at the mercy of others while he struggles to control a world warped by those absent two years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off BBC's Sherlock with inspiration from "The Adventure of the Resident Patient" and "The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> All research on prison life was done via http://www.justice.gov.uk/contacts/prison-finder/wormwood-scrubs/visiting-information, http://www.insidetime.org/info-visitorsinfo.asp?nameofprison=HMP_WORMWOOD_SCRUBS, and http://www.spurgeons.org/hmp-wormwood-scrubs/.
> 
> Thanks to Asterose for greenlighting the first chapter!

“The movement, it’s called the ‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ movement,” Lestrade said, excitable to the point of bemusement, like a grandfather telling children a story. 

“Is it really?” Sherlock remarked, at a crossroads with his emotions. He, too proud to be humbled, was left looking rather surly and suspicious. 

Wormwood Scrubs Prison’s visiting room was a stark contrast to the friendly-looking waiting room: small, windowless and with a guard standing by. Seated around the table, John sat as far from Lestrade as was feasible and kept his head low to avoid looking straight at him. 

“It even has a Facebook page,” Lestrade said, grinning despite himself. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.” 

John covered his mouth behind his hand to avoid looking too terribly chuffed. 

“That’s a start,” John said, directing his words towards Sherlock to avoid making conversation with Lestrade. The tactic didn’t go unnoticed by the DI who flickered between disappointment and regret. 

Lestrade clasped his hands together and tapped his foot. “I’m putting all my faith in these kids,” he said. “Trust the Internet Generation to pick up the tiniest inconsistencies in the whole Rich Brook story.” 

John pressed his lips into a thin line. 

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat. “Yes, well, that’s rather interesting, but not entirely the reason you’ve come.” 

Lestrade’s smile flickered into a smirk. “I brought the lens like you asked.” He gave Sherlock a set of rubber gloves and a plastic bag with the small, dust-covered piece of glass. 

John rolled his eyes. “A case? Are you kidding me?” 

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. “Listen, have you got any ideas what relevance this lens has to the murder? I mean, aside from how the wearer’s far-sighted.” 

“Wrong,” Sherlock said and held the lens up to the painfully bright fluorescent light. 

“What d’you mea—“

“I mean wrong. This lens is part of a pair of reading glasses. Middle-aged woman, mid-life crisis if the design is anything to go by.” 

“Design? We don’t even have the frames.” 

“Flecks of gold-colored glitter are on the lens. It’s a fashion she trusted from a magazine, and wrongly so might I add.” 

He went on. “The lens is three times as wide as it is short, meant to be worn low on the bridge of her nose. She didn’t choose bifocals for fear of appearing old. This is a woman who wants to make a good impression on her teachers, but can’t quite live up to it. She’s going to class at a local university so she feels she has to compete with the much younger students. Having an affair with her instructor.” 

“She slept with him and then killed him?” 

“Perhaps she did it for her grades. I’ll need pictures.” 

“Right,” Lestrade said. “I’ll go on my next shift.” 

“Not from you. From John.” 

John blinked his way back into the conversation. “What? Me?” 

“I need pictures of the crime scene. You’re the only one who can do it right.” 

“Lestrade just said he’d do it,” John gesticulated at the DI with a flattened hand, more likely to hit than point. 

“You’re the one I trust to do the job right.” 

Lestrade didn’t look particularly put-upon, but he avoided looking at either of them. 

“I can’t,” John said. 

“Please.” One word. One foreign, strange-sounding word that escaped Sherlock’s throat accompanied by a look of great pain, and the doctor gave in. 

“Fine,” he hissed. “When should I-?”

“Now.” Sherlock rose and went to the guard. “We’re done here.” 

“I took off half a day to visit!” John said. 

“Then you have an extra half-day to take pictures.” 

\--

Not a word was uttered for the duration of the car ride. Lestrade kept glancing over at John, who avoided looking anywhere near his vicinity. John was aware of how childish he may have seemed, but he worried that if he looked Lestrade square in his stupid face, he’d flip the car over and beat him with it. 

In Kent University, caution tape held off any other curious passersby. The classroom was on the second floor and guarded by two uniformed officers. 

“They’re fighting us to get this room back to normal,” Lestrade said. “Three more days, then we finish taking the evidence we need and clear out.” 

He attempted to explain the scene – mostly out of habit. He cut himself short as John plowed ahead and started snapping pictures with a bizarre ferocity. 

John paused in front of the marker board. Where he expected to see history notes, he instead saw a message that was mostly wiped away. 

“Meet me…. to discuss…” He could barely make out any of the words. It looked important. He took as many pictures as he could, zooming in and turning the flash on and off in turns. 

Then, for good measure, he snapped pictures of the whole room: everything from the teacher’s chair to the furthermost desk in the back of the room. 

“D’you mind?” John barked when Lestrade stood in the midst of a wide-angled shot. 

Lestrade, always the type to puff out his chest when met with resistance, instead nodded and moved out of the way. 

“I did what I had to, you know,” Lestrade said quietly as he moved to the edge of the classroom. 

When John’s finger tripped the shutter, he imagined it as quite like firing a gun. 

“I’m torn up about arresting him.” 

John could have spent the day listing the various ways that Lestrade couldn’t be believed. Instead, he held his tongue. “Fine.” _Click. Click._

“I just don’t want you to think—“

“Think what? That you’re truly…. Truly excellent at following Mycroft’s orders. You’ve even found a way to use Sherlock while he’s in prison,” John shook his head, lips twisted up. “It’s all – it’s perfect for you, isn’t it? You’ve got it so he’s always readily available, and he’s taking care of your cases for you. I commend you, I really do.” 

“That’s nice,” Lestrade snapped. “Real nice. Do you think I’m pleased with this? Dusted myself off and called it a day.” 

“He’s in prison and you’re giving him cases – he can’t even be at the crime scene. That’s like kicking a wheelchair out from under a person.” 

“You know how he gets when he’s bored,” Lestrade insisted. “Do you want him to be that surly in Wormwood? You and I have far more patience than the guards or inmates.” 

“If you don’t like it, get him out of there.” 

“I’m doing my best. The movement is—“

“Not some bloody movement. Why are you wasting your time with this murder when you should be working on Sherlock’s case?” 

“Because people don’t stop killing each other when a good man goes to jail.” 

“Surely somebody else—“ John started. 

“Yes, someone else could. But that someone else has been assigned Sherlock’s case and I’ve been told by the Chief of Police that if I so much as breathe on the paperwork, I’ll be demoted.” 

John struggled a moment. “I-I didn’t realize…”

“That’s why I’m pleased with the ‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ movement: I can gather information anonymously and it won’t jeopardize my career. 

“As for the detective in charge: don’t think for a minute that I’m not on this chap’s back, hassling him for his leads and reports. I’m spending more of my time with the ‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ forum than with this murder. And Mycroft be damned: If he wants his brother easily located, he ought to put him back in 221B, and that’s my honest opinion.” 

\--

Confused thoughts made for a tangled mess in John’s head. A vindictive part of him wanted to go on hating Lestrade, but his reasons were growing weak around the edges. The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed with himself and frustrated he became. 

This only made him more eager to return home, where a whole different slew of problems awaited him. 

When he opened the door, he found Mary sitting on the stairs by the landing. She held her head and breathed heavily. 

“What happened this time?” he kept an even tone. 

“I couldn’t… get up the stairs,” she said. “I wanted to get groceries while you were out. My legs gave out halfway down the block.” 

“You’ve been bedridden three days,” he said, touching her good arm. “You shouldn’t push yourself.” 

“It’s getting worse faster than I expected,” she said. Her eyes took on a wide, steely edge. 

“It’s all right,” he said. 

She offered him a look of patience long-lost. 

“I know I can’t very well convince you to wait until I’m home before you go out. But at least let me buy you a walker or a lift for the stairs.” 

“I hate this.” She folded her arms around her bony frame. “I don’t want your pity.” 

He could have argued, but didn’t have the energy. “Now, it’s Tuesday—“ he began. 

“Already?” 

“You have dialysis tonight. Have you eaten anything today?” 

She scratched some of the powdery substance from her arm. “I didn’t get to pick up groceries, so no.” 

“Do you think you can?” 

“I feel really sick. I don’t even want to go out tonight.” 

“Well, you can’t very well skip dialysis.” 

She was silent a moment. “It would be easier, though… on you.” 

John lost his train of thought. “Don’t—don’t even start like that. I won’t hear it. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

“John, seriously, we need to talk about this,” she started, careful as a therapist easing a claustrophobe into a closet. 

He balled his hands into fists, caught on the cusp of rage and sorrow. “I’m making tea,” he said and left to start the kettle. 

Eventually, he helped her settle onto the couch and covered her in a blanket. He made good on his promise of tea. 

“Peppermint,” he told her and handed her the mug. 

“An abomination,” she mumbled. 

He breathed a chuckle. “Yes, that is what I called it. Not proper tea. And then you told me ‘Americans handle proper tea by dumping it in the harbor.’ That’s what you said.” 

She wiped her eyes and breathed in the smell of her mug, rather than sipping it. “Did you see your friend?” she asked. 

John made an uneasy sound, though he was grateful for her effort. “Briefly, before he sent me away. Wanted me to…” he stopped himself. She didn’t know about the crime scenes and the mystery-solving and the adventures. And he thought he rather preferred to keep it that way. “Wanted me to take pictures.” 

“Weird request. But I guess if he’s in prison, he’d want to see glimpses of the outside world.” 

“Depends on your definition of outside…”

“Hm?” 

“Never mind. If you’re feeling better, how about I make you something to eat?” He moved to stand, but she grasped at his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry that you’re always taking care of me,” she said. 

“I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.” 

“It’s not fair.” 

“We knew it was going to come to this.” 

Something on her face changed and twisted up. “It hasn’t come to anything. Not yet. I won’t let it until I say so.” 

“Good. Just keep doing your best. Keep fighting.” 

“I wasn’t ever going to stop,” she said. 

\--

John clutched the file of photographs to his chest as he slid into the passenger’s seat of Lestrade’s car. 

“Change of plans: I’m dropping you by,” Lestrade said. 

John, still uneasy around the detective, really looked at Lestrade. 

“I thought that since he was only allowed three visits per week…” he began. 

“You take this one. I have to work,” Lestrade said and sighed. “No rest for the wicked.” 

They sat in silence, staring ahead of themselves as they trekked through winding roads. When finally the silence threatened to pierce their ears, John spoke up. 

“I knew you did it because you had to,” John said. “The arrest.” 

“It’s frustrating as hell. And it’s riddled in bullshit politics.” 

“D’you know why Mycroft is sitting on his hands?” 

Lestrade tapped the steering wheel. “No bloody clue. Won’t answer my questions.” 

“He could easily get Sherlock out of prison. He has the evidence – Sherlock said he gave Mycroft his phone.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Lestrade said. “Part of me thinks Mycroft’s pleased with the result.” 

John felt a sick twist in the pit of his stomach. “He’d asked me to stay away from Sherlock. Why would he do this?” 

They pulled up to the prison. 

“Don’t know. And right now, I don’t want to think about it,” Lestrade said. 

John’s head ached with his words as he stepped out of the car and made it to the visitor’s center. 

\--

“Here,” John said, handing Sherlock the printings he’d made from the crime scene. “They wouldn’t let me bring the camera into the prison,” he added. 

“The quality is terrible,” Sherlock remarked. “It’s almost like you printed this on your home computer.” 

“Yes, well…”

Sherlock took about thirty seconds flipping through the photos. He carefully placed two pictures on the table and let the rest slip to the floor. 

“This,” Sherlock said, pointing to an image of the teacher’s desk and chair. “There’s a scratch on this desk. I need you to take a better picture—“

“Wait, hang on, so the writing on the board isn’t the least bit important?” 

“Of course it isn’t. Scribbles from a previous class, badly erased. The image clearly states, ‘Meet me in my office to discuss your grades.’ The murder took place in the classroom, not the office. Pay attention.” 

John kneaded his forehead. “Fine, alright, so you want… how about I get the picture with the desk blown up then?” 

“No, I need the image of the scratch to be taken at several different angles. If it’s as fresh as it appears to be, then the motive will be easy to find.” 

“You want me to go back there?” John just got away from Lestrade. He wasn’t ready to confront him again. 

Sherlock hesitated, sensing something was off. “Are you afraid they won’t let you back onto the crime scene? Ask Lestrade to let you in.” 

“That’s what I’m…. Yeah, you’re sure there’s no other way?” 

“I need this done exactly the way I asked,” Sherlock was insistent. “Can you not find the time to do it?” 

“No, I just… alright.” 

“And ask Lestrade to bring the pictures of the victim’s body from the morgue. He promised them to me.” 

“How about I just ask Molly—hm…” That was an uncomfortable moment of sickening familiarity. John had to remind himself that Molly wasn’t at St. Bart’s. 

At the name “Molly,” Sherlock’s lips widened into a smile. He stared above John’s head. John took a few moments to snap out of it and look up. 

Standing over him was Molly. 

"Hello, Pandora," Sherlock said. 

John stared between them. "Y-you mean you actually call her that?" 

"Why wouldn't I? It's the name she's chosen," Sherlock said. 

"It's not her name," John insisted. "It's never been her name. It's -- she's Molly." 

Sherlock turned his attention away from John. He smiled up at her with practiced openness. He looked comfortable. "Come to bring me news?" he asked. 

Molly smiled -- not that self-conscious, girlish smile of two years ago. She smiled like she knew Sherlock's expressions. Like she knew the sort of monster he could be, as well as the sort of hero he was meant to be. 

"No, actually," Molly said. "I'm here for John." 

John was still looking between them, gauging their silent interaction. Then the words caught up to him. 

"Me?" John asked. 

Sherlock seemed just as surprised. 

"Yes," she said. "We have Mr. Morstan and Mycroft thinks you might like to have a word." 

"'Might like to'?" John repeated. "I... There aren't really words for how off-base Mycroft is in that assumption." 

"Um, well, that's why I'm meant to convince you," Molly said bending her knees like a miniscule curtsey as she spoke. 

John looked back at Sherlock. 

Sherlock offered him a bland look. "I'm not keeping you," he said. 

Shaking his head, John exited the tiny visiting room. "This had better be interesting," he said. 

"I'm... rather certain it will be," Molly replied. She didn’t hesitate as they stopped at the locker room. 

“What’ve you found out from Morstan?” John asked, pronouncing the man’s surname vaguely differently than his wife’s maiden name. He gathered his coat and checked the pockets for his wallet, keys, and phone. 

“Hardly anything,” she said. “Mycroft thinks you can get the answers.” 

“Me? I was the one who helped arrest him,” John said. 

“He might listen to you because you’re military,” she suggested. “Or, well it might help if you tell him…. about Mary.” 

“I’m not bringing Mary in,” he said. 

“I don’t expect you to,” she said. “Just… talk about her, I suppose. I don’t know. It was a silly idea.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off BBC's Sherlock with inspiration from "The Adventure of the Resident Patient" and "The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Thank you, Asterose, for greenlighting this whole story. You're the best!

Sebastian Morstan was utterly silent in his holding room when John walked in. His scraggly hair covered one sunken eye, while the other took on a steely edge like he was perfectly prepared for whatever tactics John used.  
  
Morstan’s hand was wrapped in gauze that he’d bled partway through. Risk of infection if untreated. John fought the urge to inspect his injury.  
  
Taking the chair, John was reminded of his therapist’s office. He couldn’t explain why and it left him unnerved.  
  
“Yes, um…” John began. “I’m Dr. Watson– John. John Watson.”  
  
Silence was the only response.  
  
“I, er, I’d like to discuss with you the…. your involvement with Moriarty.”  
  
Morstan stared at a patch of air to the left of John. His gaze didn’t fluctuate.  
  
“We, uh, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s really – it’s your choice really.”  
  
Still no response.  
  
“Right. Well…”  
  
 _\--_  
  
“That was embarrassing,” John said when he was safely down the hall from the interrogation room.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Molly said. “I mean, I think – it looked like maybe he sort-of might’ve looked right at you.”

“I’m rubbish at interrogating.”

“If it makes you feel better, Mycroft didn’t have any luck either.”

“That doesn’t do much to help.”

“Yes, well, he also spat on Mycroft’s shoe.”

John snorted. He held his hand over his mouth to be polite, but couldn’t hold back the grin. Molly looked away.  
  
“Yeah, alright, that does improve my mood,” John said.

“Good.” Despite Molly’s better attempts to retaining her composure, she seemed flustered. “We’ll be in contact with you for the next attempt.”

“Wait, you – you’re having me do this again? After the abysmal failure of today? The man won’t talk to me.”

“Mycroft thinks you’re going to make the difference,” Molly said. “I’d suggest keeping your schedule clear, er, since Mycroft didn’t exactly specify a time, if that’s alright.” Anthea. She was getting to sound exactly like Anthea, with Molly-like hesitations as she spoke.

John felt sick as he wondered if all of Mycroft’s assistants went through this sort of metamorphosis. 

“For now, think of a different approach for dealing with Morstan. Your ride is waiting for you out front.” Too cold. Too unfamiliar. John didn’t have the capacity for dealing with this.

“I’m not leaving.”

Molly hesitated. “Oh?” she bit her lip and looked around herself.

“No, you see I did Mycroft a favor. Now he has to listen to me.”

Molly shifted her weight to the other foot and looked caught between wanting to dash off, but unsatisfied with her destinations.

“I’ll, um, just have a word with him then,” she said.

“I won’t take no.”

“I’ll do my best, John,” she said, her voice a hushed whisper. On unsteady heels, she made her way to Mycroft’s office.

They made him wait an hour. John didn’t hear any indications of an argument. This was probably just Mycroft reminding him who was most important in this building. 

Finally, Molly came out with her gaze turned down and led John in.

“You can’t leave Sherlock in prison,” were the first words that came from John’s mouth.

“Good evening to you as well,” Mycroft said, smiling like he’d eaten something distasteful. He waved Molly off and she scampered away. “Thank you again for your service to Her Majesty and--.”

“Please don’t pull crap with me, Mycroft. You can’t let your brother rot in there.”

“Believe me that rotting is the least trouble he could get himself into,” Mycroft replied.

“He’s taking cases from Lestrade. He’s helping. I mean, that’s what you want, yes? To have your brother do all the dirty work for you? Who will do all that nasty footwork you so dislike?”

Mycroft looked him in the eye. “It is a dangerous world out there for a man like Sherlock.”

“What’s so different about it now than it was before? What are you so afraid of happening, Mycroft?”

“You are aware of the ‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ movement, yes? I understand Detective Inspector Lestrade told you. As with any coin, there is another side: the ‘Believe in Richard Brook’ movement. A dedicated group of people is desperate to cause harm to my brother and I don’t want to give them the opportunity.”

“Okay, yes, he’s back to being famous, like he was before. Then relocate him somewhere safer or give him a fake name or something.”

“He’ll seek out the danger. Sherlock’s preoccupation with Moriarty is putting him at terrible risk.”

“How on earth—“

“Moriarty made it a point that he and Sherlock aren’t so different. Sherlock has been living in solitude, agonizing over that idea for the past two years.” 

“You think he’s going to become Moriarty – that’s your concern.”

“I’m protecting him.”

“No, you’re protecting the world from him.” 

“You’ve seen the changes in him,” Mycroft went on. “Once a creature of habit, he’s now unhinged, unpredictable.”

“Almost like a human being,” John said. “Not that you would know.”

“The world is unforgiving. There isn’t space for someone like him.”

“You would rather see Sherlock die a prisoner than risk trusting him.”

Mycroft reclined back in his seat. “Your affection for my brother is overwhelming, John.” He smiled as though it were a joke. “He would not be the man he is today without your influence.” 

John snapped at the barbed compliment. “I won’t stop,” John hollered. “I won’t rest until you know just how wrong you are.”

“That will do, John.”

“Don’t dare think you know better, when you’re not even giving him a chance.”

Molly came to collect him, so John stormed past her. He waited outside for the usual limo to drive him home. He wound up waiting longer than his patience was willing to last.

_\--_

“Er, you wanted to see me?” Lestrade stepped into the Chief Superintendent’s office. He rubbed his hands together and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

The bespectacled man crossed his arms and looked over Lestrade.

“Been keeping out of trouble?” he asked.

Lestrade wrapped his arms around himself. “Er… yes?” 

“No,” the Chief said, shaking his head slowly. “I hear you been hassling Carter.”

“I was just…”

“Finding out information on a case I barred you from, is what you were ‘just.’”

Lestrade unfolded one of his arms and looked around the room, searching for a way to remain respectful. “I thought I could advise him…”

“Is he a Detective Sergeant?”

Lestrade bit his lip. “No.”

“He’s same as you. Don’t get caught up in his case anymore. I had to let Gregson go and Dimmock’s on probation because of their involvement with that Sherlock Holmes. You’re one of my best and I’d sooner kick myself than lose another DI.”

There weren’t words for a response.

“If I see you talking to Carter again, you’re going back to desk work for another year.”

Lestrade winced.

“You only just got off desk work six months ago. You don’t want to go back to that, now do you?” the Chief’s belittling attitude made Lestrade struggle for words. “Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“No sir is right. Go back to your desk and keep yourself out of trouble. Work on that note we got.”

\--

He was barely seated when Donovan knocked on his door.

“What do you want?” Lestrade demanded.

She stared at him from under her eyebrows. “You asked me here.”

Lestrade struggled to clear his head. “Right. Well, where’s Anderson?”

“At the case you assigned him on.” She stared at him like he were ill. 

“Which case? When did I assign him?” Lestrade tore through a pile of paperwork.

“How would I know? I’m not his keeper.”

He sifted through sheets and files, his blood pressure boiling as he felt ready to explode.

Donovan stepped in and put her hand on top of the file. He reached to pull her hand away, but she spoke.

“Greg…” she lowered her voice. “Pull yourself together, mate. You’re on the clock right now and there’s people watching.”

He looked over to see that, yes, amidst the cubicles, some people were poking their heads to get a better view of his office.

“You can tell us about it over drinks tonight, yeah?” she continued and nodded.

He scratched his forehead and straightened his back.

“Right, I’ve a letter,” he said, handing her a sheet of paper sealed in a plastic bag. “Addressed to New Scotland Yard. No envelope. No explanation. Just a… er, a poem.”

She held the bag up to the light and read the words.

“It’s been tested – no toxins present. Just some stains from the transit. Have some of our handwriting analysts—“

“It’s Shakespeare,” she said.

“What?”

“Shakespeare. ‘Under the Greenwood Tree.’ We studied it in school.”

“Why would someone send us Shakespeare?” he pulled out a pen and scratched the back of his head frantically with the dull end. “Maybe it’s where a body’s hidden?” 

“So you want me digging up every tree in London?” she asked, crossing her arms with a smirk.

“Just have this figured out as soon as possible. I want results, so I’m asking you.”

“That’s what I’m good for,” she said. 

_\--_

John had no patience for listening to symptoms at the clinic the next day.

He blurred the lines: asking people a bit too harshly about symptoms, like he was still in that windowless room, staring at the old man with the gaunt face. Much as he tried to clear his mind, he couldn’t get a proper grasp on the divide between past and present, exciting and mundane.

He finished his coffee and stared at the chart on the wall for a time. Sherlock’s request: the pictures… it was a waste of time to be at work. What was he doing?

A nurse popped her head in. “Next patient for you,” she said. “Jane Smith, room 204. Blood pressure’s good, here for her annual.”

“Yes, alright.” 

His new plan of action was to continue seeing patients until he couldn’t stand. He didn’t intend to use up any more sick days.

John made his way down the hall to the room. Upon opening the door, he saw Molly sitting on the paper-covered seat. She smiled awkwardly at him: more of a wince than a grin.

“No, nope. No. Definitely not,” John muttered, turning to walk back out.

Molly moved off the seat. “Mycroft wanted me to get my annual…”  
  


“You’re not even my patient – don’t you have a GP?” He stood by the door.

“He’s retired this year. So could you…?”

John squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hand. Then, he pulled out his stethoscope. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” she murmured and moved back to the bench.

“You should be able to do your own self-check with your medical training.” He pressed the cold metal circle to her back. “Breathe deeply.”

She did so, but then chuckled. “I’ve a better understanding of patients who can’t breathe deeply. Or at all.”

“Right, of course not.” 

“Still, it’s easy for me to tell that Mr. Morstan’s hand is going to be a problem if we don’t get help for him.”

John distinctly did not want to talk about this. Yet, his mouth had other plans.

“Why hasn’t Mycroft let you treat him?”

“He thinks the infection will lower Mr. Morstan’s defences. While that makes sense, it’s worrisome.”

“Mycroft isn’t really one for compassion.”

“That’s true, but time is against us. Mr. Morstan’s immune system is not very strong.”

“Next thing, you’ll ask me to interrogate him again,” John said.

Molly bit her lip.

“If I agree to – and I succeed -- you’re going to get Morstan medical help, alright?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“And then you can talk to Mycroft about getting Sherlock out of prison.”

“D-do you think that’s wise?”

“You have far more leeway than I do.”

“That’s not true,” Molly protested. “If Mycroft owes you a favor, he’s more willing to listen.”

“Owe him a favor ? You’re his assistant! He has no choice but to listen to you.”

“That’s not true. He has respect for you, though. It’s why I’m having you do the interrogating rather than a professional.”

He dropped the stethoscope and glared.

She curled in on herself like a mouse exposed to a hawk. “Oh… I wasn’t meant to say that part.”

“This is your doing? This headache is because of your bloody idea?”

“It’s the only hope we have. I can’t convince him, so…”

“So you’re leaving it up to me.” He shook his head. “No. I’ll do this, yeah. And Mycroft is going to owe me – enormously. But you are going to be the one showing up to his office every day, demanding to speak to him about Sherlock until he’s sick to death of the sight of you.”

She trembled where she sat. “Yes, alright.”

\--

Outside the tiny interrogation room, Molly handed John a stiff folder that was pinned shut. “Mycroft wants you to have these.”

John went to open it.

“Don’t look-“ Molly started, covering the folder with her hands. “No. Um… Mycroft says to wait to open it until you’re near giving up.”

“I see I have all of his confidence,” John said.

She winced. “He thinks it’ll give you just enough leverage, should the situation go awry.”

“What’s Mycroft expecting?” 

“That’s not my place to say,” she straightened just enough to appear almost assertive.

John shook his head, staring at her. “I really can’t believe any of this.”

\--

John made his way through the double-locked doors, grateful to get away from Molly. The crumbling old man seemed trivial by comparison.

John was barely in his seat when he began. “My best friend’s in jail and you have the answers I need.”

No response. Not even a blink.

“I’m getting you medical help for that hand, which you’re going to lose if you don’t answer my questions.” John went on. “I already know rather a lot about you, so let’s skip to the important parts. You were a colonel in Afghanistan. You were framed, yes? You didn’t really shoot up that village.”

No response.

“I’m military as well and I know how it is to settle into regular life. It feels dull around the edges. You try to be polite, but every time you meet someone, you size them up; think up twelve different ways to incapacitate them.”

Morstan was grinding his teeth as he stared at John.

“I started solving crimes. You turned to making them.”

Morstan made a sound like a scoff.

“I’m wrong?”

“You’re a shithead,” Morstan ground out, his voice like crumpled paper.

“You were a sniper – I can tell by your equipment. You needed to find work, were desperate for money.” 

The air bristled with Morstan’s silence.

“Tell me!” John’s hand hit the file he was carrying. The sound startled him enough to look down at it.

He tugged apart the elastic and opened the manila folder.

In the file were pictures of Mary: candid photos of her taken at the supermarket or on a walk. 

John’s hands rested on the photos and began to shake.

“Some show of power,” he muttered. He turned to the criminal in front of him: the only person he could relate to in this moment.

“D’you know what these are?” John demanded, holding up a picture of Mary examining an apricot.

Morstan’s steely gaze was frozen wide.

“These are just as much for me as they are for you. Do you see this?” He dropped the picture onto the concrete to lean back in his chair.

“He’s showing off,” John said to the ceiling. “Could’ve asked me to bring pictures, but no. He had to prove that he could get them his own special way.”

When John finally looked back to Morstan, the criminal was struggling with his shackled hands to reach the photo.

“Sorry,” John said and picked up the picture before handing it to Morstan. “He just… Mycroft had to make it personal.” He held open the folder and turned it to the other man.

“These are… they’re recent pictures of your daughter,” he said. “This one’s dated a month ago, Saturday. She’d never tried an apricot before, so she bought a half dozen. Made me eat most of them. And this one…”

His breath tightened in his throat as he stared at the picture.

“This one I’m with her. It was last week: she felt better so she wanted to go for a walk.” He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Morstan laid his thin and knobby fingers on the picture.

“She, um…” John took a deep breath and tried again. “She’s not dead, as I think you’re starting to figure out. She’s… well, she’s living here, in England. She’s married. Um… was doing well for a while, but her health took a bit of a nasty turn as of late.”

“She’s smiling,” Morstan said, holding the picture in front of himself. Finally, he looked up at John. “You her doctor?”

“Yes, well, I was. She only sees a specialist these days.”

Morstan nodded his head and sat back. “You’re wrong. Afghanistan: I slaughtered that village.”

John was shaken. “Why?”

“Following orders. And I wasn’t the only one.”

“You were a colonel.”

“Everyone has a boss. He wanted to send me in for a suicide mission. I’d have died a hero. So I made sure to come out alive.”

“So they defamed you.”

“The story twists in favor of the one who dies. I didn’t think they could implicate me for surviving. I was an idiot.”

“But you won the court case.”

“Got some legal advice. Didn’t know it came from a rotten source.”

“Moriarty…”

Just hearing the name made Morstan tense. “Who else would it be? Even proven innocent, I couldn’t find a job in the States. He set me up to fall here in England.”

“Why you?”

“I was a damned good sniper. But I think he liked the thrill of my situation: he twisted the law to suit his needs.”

“And then he turned you into a criminal.” 

“The bastard made me give up everything – my apartment, my savings. Made me live on the streets. I stuck to following his orders because that’s all I was good for anymore.”

“He’s been communicating with you? The mobile was from Moriarty?”

“He gave me that cell phone, but the voice on the line was never him.”

“For how long?”

“Two years now. Different people every time. Mostly thick accents. Some kind of Chinese sounds in the background.”

“Chinese…” John repeated. “Sherlock mentioned the activity in the bank account was happening in some Asian countries **.** Do you think Moriarty could still be alive?”

“I’m sure he is. And he’s planning to come back. That’s why he had me set up the bank account now.”

John thought of how the phone rang in Morstan’s pocket as he was being arrested. He remembered the way Sherlock and Donovan both became upset when they heard the lyrics.

“Is that your standard ringtone?” he asked.

“Moriarty picked it. Said it was ‘his’ song.”

“I thought Moriarty’s song was the Bee Gees.”

“No, not Moriarty’s song. _His_ song. Moriarty didn’t say who; just said ‘That’s his song.’”

John held his head as he tried to process all the information. He realized, belatedly, that he should have taken some form of notes. 

“Thank you,” he said at last to Morstan. “Thank you so much. I… I’ll try to arrange so you can see your daughter again.”

“I’d prefer you tell her I’m dead.”

John hesitated. “But she wants to see you.”

“I don’t want her to remember me as some animal shackled to the wall. You said her health is failing her. Kidney disease took my wife and Mary’s had it most of her life. I don’t want to put any more stress on her than I already have.”

“That’s insane. She came all the way out here looking for you.”

“And I trusted some insane bastard who told me she was dead. He showed me the body and I actually let myself believe him.”

“She’ll forgive you.”

“I won’t. No, tell her I’m long dead. Pick out any unmarked grave – it’s mine.”

John’s head felt like it was bound to explode.

“NO!” he hollered at the feeble-looking man, who stared back at him, braced for a fight. “I am SO sick of people playing hero – thinking that they’ll redeem themselves by disappearing from a person’s life. +Leave that decision up to Mary. Let her redeem you. But I refuse – REFUSE – to keep you a secret from her.”


	3. Chapter 3

Molly was in the hall when John made his way out of the interrogation room. Her forehead was wrinkled with concern, though she kept her pink-clad phone pressed to her ear. She was nodding, as if the person at the other end could see or didn’t care.

“Yes, I understand,” she said and hung up. “Oh, John…”

John leaned back against the wall, digging his head into the tile.

“It was – I mean, it looked like it went well, but—“

“Mycroft got all the answers he needs?”

“He’s terribly pleased with you, John,” she said. “So many loose ends have been tied, but you look…”

“The conversation didn’t end well.”

“I suppose not…” she said, her gaze wandered across the floor. 

“I’m not doing this again.”

“You won’t have to. We have the information. Mr. Morstan will be sent to Wormwood Scrubs to await his day in court.”

“Keeping all of his pawns in one place,” John shook his head. “I wonder if they’ll become buddies: Morstan and Holmes. Solve crimes from behind bars.”

“Doubtful, but they will be safe. We’re having them looked after.”

“’We’?” he repeated, squinting at her. “When did this…? No, why exactly are you and Mycroft a ‘we’ now? What happened?”

“When I started working for him…” she began, clutching her phone to her chest.

“How did that even come to be? Sherlock hates his brother.”

“He said he hated him. I don’t think he ever really felt that way though... They do love each other.”

John felt something inside of him tighten.

Molly looked around herself as if wary of spies and cameras. “Sherlock asked for my help. That didn’t stop after he faked his death. It’s been nothing but danger since then, so Mycroft gave me the opportunity to keep my promise and even call it a job.”

“Mycroft had you spy on Sherlock.”

“I was the only human contact Sherlock had for most of two years. Mycroft had people track him down and in less dangerous places, I visited. Otherwise, I webcammed.”

“How many times?”

“Once a week? I visited him in person maybe five times over those two years. He preferred to keep his privacy, and I respected that. Though I think that left him worse off...”

John bit the inside of his cheek. “I just don’t understand. If he’d asked, I’d have been there for him.”

Molly straightened and a strangely cold look came over her face. “Yes, but he wanted me.”

\--

A full day later, outside the unmarked building sat a white police van with the London logo and livery. Mycroft watched as two armed guards led out Sebastian Morstan. The old man’s hands were shackled in such a way that he couldn’t adjust the gauze that was slipping off his injured hand.

The driver held open the door to the back of the van, which was segregated into sections by chain link fencing. The two guards kept to Morstan’s back like imposing shadows, hoisting him up the steps. Before starting the engine, the driver nodded to Mycroft who raised his chin in response.

Morstan was too frail and thin for his seat, and he shook as the car picked up speed. The guards watched him without expression. Then, they exchanged looks.

One reached to his side and pulled out a handgun, pointing it at the old man’s head. “Mr. Moriarty sends his condolences,” the first one said. “He wishes he could be here, but he’s a busy man.”

“So he’s sent you monkeys to do the cleanup,” Morstan ground out. 

The other guard’s lips curled into a smirk. “Glad you understand the situation. Then you know you shouldn’t bother fighting.”

Morstan took in a shaking breath and closed his eyes.

 _BANG_.

The driver, undeterred, took the exit for the hospital.

\--

In Wormwood Scrubs’ visitor’s room, John waited an extra hour for Sherlock to be brought out. When he did, the consulting detective broke from his usual routine.

Sherlock was jittery, anxious. His eyes kept darting around, focusing on seemingly random areas. He kept glancing back to the guard.

“You look paranoid,” John murmured. “Are you out of nicotine patches?”

A crumpled note was shoved into his hand. John blinked down at it.

“No, don’t _look_ at it,” Sherlock hissed. “Pretend it’s not there. Put it in your pocket.”

“What is—?”

“Not for you. For my brother.”

“What?”

“John, promise you won’t look at it. Give it straight to Mycroft.”

John struggled for words. “I d-don’t understand.”

Sherlock gave him his trademark smile: the look of a man whose plans were falling into place. “Good. That’s what I need from you.”

\--

The note was burning a hole in John’s pocket. He couldn’t read it.

He wasn’t even sure where to find Mycroft in the middle of the evening like this. Probably goofing off in his club, John decided, but there was no assurance that this wasn’t wasted effort.

The note kept tugging at his attention. He kept picturing the look of fear on Sherlock’s face: actual legitimate fear. It made his stomach twist. 

Maybe if he read the note, he could help. Maybe he could find a way to fix the situation.

But no, that was probably exactly what Sherlock warned him against. So it seemed Sherlock didn’t want help, didn’t want to “fix” the situation.

Maybe he was content in that prison. That was a sick thought.

He could try convincing Sherlock: he could turn this cab around back to Wormwood and demand that Sherlock think about the bigger picture. But telling Sherlock how to think was only going to strain their already tense relationship.

He needed to talk to Mycroft. Maybe discuss the matters on the note. If John just read it ahead of time, he could practice what to say and maybe help Sherlock’s case.

The cab pulled up to the Diogenes Club. John moved his hand away from his pocket and paid the cabbie.

The club was near-empty when John arrived,not that it wasn’t already unsettling. The entirely silent interior was not made any darker by a lack of visitors. It was simply silent, like an uninteresting programme with the volume too low.

John made his way to the double-doors of Mycroft’s office and pushed.

No dramatic opening. 

He tried the handle. Nothing. Locked.

“Fuck!” His voice echoed back to his own ears. The lone customer lowered his book and stared at John with wide eyes. If not for the fervor of panic, John might have felt self-conscious.

Two guards came at him, wearing socks over their shoes so they didn’t make a sound. They were two living walls, menacing him.

“Listen, here,” he thrust the note at the one on the right. “Give this to Mycroft. I demand it. It’s important—from his brother. Do you hear me?”

They reached for him.

“Don’t—I’m leaving,” John said and brushed past them.

\--

When John returned home, the television buzzed in the sitting room. It cast a dull glow on a wad of blankets on the couch, but there was no other sign of life. He felt tension crawl up his bad shoulder.  
  
“Mary?” he called, climbing the stairs. The door to the bedroom was open and the bed was unmade, but she wasn’t there.

His first thought was that she’d been taken. His second thought was that if she was taken, her kidnappers didn’t know she needed dialysis every other night and that she’d die before he could rescue her. His third thought was that he needed to collect evidence like footprints or bits of hair.

His last thought on the matter was that he really needed to calm down and try calling for her again.  
  
“Mary?” he called more aggressively. “Mary?” He was all but yelling.

“H…. here,” came a weak voice. Crouched down in the corner of the master bathroom, Mary’s skinny form was draped over the toilet. Her arm lay across the bowl, keeping her head above the water.  
  
John stepped in closer and the stench of vomit met his nostrils. He was all too familiar with the smell – how it clung to the walls of his practice. It smelled bitterer now than when it came from a dying soldier.

He wet a clean washcloth and knelt to cradle Mary in his arms. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion in the dim lighting of the bathroom.  
  
He wiped down her face and arms. “Can you walk?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

She shook her head. “This is so embarrassing.”

He let out a weak chuckle. “I’ll try to lift you.” Her hip bone dug against his hand. She was so thin and frail, it was like holding a child. 

She cleared her throat and made a disgusted face before talking. “We really should move the bed closer to the bathroom.”

“That would certainly make things easier.” He laid her down on the sheets and tucked the covers over her. As an afterthought, he kissed her forehead.

“I’m running out of time,” she murmured.

“No, stop that…” 

“I came all the way out to London, and I might never see my dad after all.”

John thought of the old man who begged him not to say anything to Mary. John swore he wasn’t going to hide him from Mary, and yet that’s exactly what he’d inadvertently done. He thought of all the opportunities he’d missed in the last 24 hours to tell her.

“I think…. I’ve found him,” he said.

“What?”

“I hired a private detective to find him.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. “He’d be on his way to Wormwood Scrubs. Erm… I can book us a visit.”

She gripped the bed sheets. “Are you serious?”

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve made arrangements sooner, but I wasn’t sure…”

She covered her mouth with her hand as she stared straight ahead. “I… I don’t know what to say.” 

“No – really, honestly, no. I meant to tell you sooner.”

“I can’t believe this is real. I owe you everything.”

\--

“It’s not just a poem,” Donovan said when she walked into Lestrade’s office. The DI was hunched over his desk, scrutinizing his computer as though it were a bomb and he was the disarmer.

“What’s not?” he mumbled, not pulling his gaze away from his work.

She crossed her arms. “ _Under the Greenwood Tree_. It’s a movie and a book as well – I’ve been researching.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

She slipped her hand in front of his screen and he finally looked up at her. “It means the real message may not be in the form of the poem. It might be hidden in a scene of the film or a chapter of the book.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “I take it you sorted through all that?”

“Five times each. If I have to watch that stupid romance film one more time, I’m going to crack the DVD in half,” she said.

“It’s a song, too.”

She breathed a heavy sigh of defeat: the kind that collapsed her shoulders and chest in on itself. “By who?”

“Don’t remember. From the ‘70’s I think. You’re keeping a file of anything suspicious?”

“Twenty pages so far. I’ll look through our usual suspects and try to narrow it down.”

\--

“Hello? It’s John Watson and I’d like to book another visit,” the weekend passed with unsettlingly little incident. Mary spent the majority of three days asleep and there wasn’t word from Lestrade or Sherlock.

Monday, the cycle began over and he started the morning by calling out sick from work, and booking his visits. “But first I’d like to know how I can bring a wheelchair-bound visitor.” He leaned back in his chair with the phone pressed to his ear.

“We have a handicap ramp available on premises,” said the stern voice on the other end of the line. “Who are you looking to visit?”

“Well, it’s just that the visitor is in very bad health and I’m wondering if you have a policy—oh, erm, Sebastian Morstan, but I wanted—“

“He’s not in the directory yet. It takes one full week to—“

“I know the policy. I just wanted to be sure—“

The woman didn’t let him finish. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

“Yes. I’d like to book a visit to see Sherlock Holmes.”

A moment of typing passed. “It says he’s been transferred.”

John was silent a moment.

“He’s—what?” Perhaps he’d misheard.

“He’s been moved to Wandsworth in Maximum Security. I can give you the number, but they don’t give clearance to visit Maximum Security inmates,” the woman said.

“Are you kidding me?” His voice teetered off the edge of panic and rage. This was a joke or a prank, but it was completely impossible. “Put me through to someone. To anyone.”

So he was put through to the voice message of an administrator.


	4. Chapter 4

John’s mind was reeling over the news about Sherlock. He didn’t believe it was true and hadn’t gotten a call back. Following that, he left three harried voice messages on Lestrade’s phone, demanding answers and further investigation.

There was literally nothing else he could do at this time. He went to check on Mary.

Mary’s eyes were actually open when John entered the room. Her grogginess gave her a sullen appearance, but he was grateful to see her shift her gaze to follow him.

He moved to sit down on the bed next to her and she looked to the clock.

“You should be at work,” she said.

“I’m, er, taking time off.” He opened his mouth to narrowly avoid further explanation, but she interrupted.

“Any news on the visit?”

“They said it can take a week to register an inmate before they’re allowed visitors. I’ll try again tomorrow.” It felt so strange to try to steer his mind away from Sherlock’s situation. 

“And should I assume a dialysis machine walked its way here?” She was pointing to the large, white contraption that more closely resembled an ancient printer with tubes and wires hooked around it.

“Yes, well…” he hesitated. “It seemed the right thing to do after what happened Friday. It won’t tax you to avoid going to the clinic so often.”

She went coldly silent.

Then, she reached behind her head and chucked her pillow at him. The pillow barely made it to his shoulder. She sagged where she lay, staring up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t want this,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said.

She pinched the underside of her arm and tugged at the skin to see how far it stretched over her bones.

John grabbed for her hand. “Don’t,” he warned. “You bruise more easily.” The mark on her skin was already yellowing.

“We should go,” her voice was tense.

John wanted to be anywhere but in this moment. So much waiting, hanging on for answers just out of reach.

“Where?” he asked.

“On a date. Let’s go.” She tried to lift herself upright, but her arms had no strength. Her eyes widened and she avoided his gaze.

John carefully leaned her upright and arranged the pillows behind her so she could sit with ease.

“Well, erm, where…. would you like to go?” 

“I don’t care – dinner, movies, anything. A park. We’re going to a park.”

He hesitated on his next word. “When?”

“Now.” She kept pushing to try to lift herself off the bed. With great effort, she slid her feet to the ground.

He watched her, knowing full well that she didn’t have the strength to lift herself. She was fighting the inevitable and she’d never get the results she was reaching for.

She was hardly able to catch her breath, but both feet were on the ground and she was sitting up by her own right.

“It can’t be now,” he said.

She glared at him, challenging him.

“Because I’m renting us a wheelchair first.”

Relief spread slowly across her face. “What? Not up to the challenge of carrying me around the park?”

“I’ll carry you down the stairs. How’s that?”

She smirked. “It’ll do for now.”

\--

“This is the park I’ve seen in movies,” Mary said as he wheeled her to rest by a nearby bench. She was swathed in a thick sweater and a jacket, which were held in place by a belt. “What’s it called?”

“Hyde Park,” he said and took a seat beside her.

“It’s not a very good hiding place. Lots of open space between the trees,” she said.

John shook his head and offered a chuckle. “No, I suppose it’s not.”

“Unless you’ve disguised yourself as a cyclist to evade the cops.”

“You do realize it’s ‘Hyde’ with a ‘y,’ yes?”

“You should hide.”

He raised both eyebrows at her and tilted his head to the side as if his hearing was responsible.

“You should hide and I’ll seek you.”

“No, I’m afraid we’re both a bit too old for that.”

“Never,” she said and folded her hands in her lap. She leaned her head back and her eyes fell closed. John thought she’d fallen asleep again, when suddenly she said: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” 

He fumbled a moment. “Er, w-what I wanted was to be a fireman. And, well, serving in the military is a bit like fighting fires I suppose.”

“And what do you want to be?”

“What d’you mean, now?” 

“You’re still growing up. You will be your whole life,” she said, adjusting her shawl rather like John’s grandmother once did. “What are you working towards?”

He blinked down at his hands as he weighed his options. “I’m just surviving, I suppose.”

“That’s no way to live. Think. What do you want most?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I…. I want to see Sherlock out of prison.”

She stared at him, lips quirking at the corners, on the verge of a good laugh. “You should bust him out,” she hissed.

“No—what? You’ve gone mad.”

“Yeah, like an action movie star. Go in, guns blazing.”

“I should never have said anything,” he said.

“What else do you want most?” 

He laughed briefly. “I want to break Mycroft’s ridiculous nose.”

She didn’t even know who Mycroft was, but she grinned along with him.

“What do you want after that? What will you do next?”

“I… what I want….” His chest tightened. “I want to be a blogger again. I want to chronicle my adventures with Sherlock and – not the same as we did before. I’d like to be more of a help – more of an equal. I think the stars in my eyes have mostly worn away.

“I want to go back to solving crimes and feeling like I can make the world better by little bits at a time.”

Mary’s hands were folded tightly in her lap as she watched him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you any of this sooner,” John began.

“No… I—you should do that. All of it.”

“I can’t very well – you realize he’s in prison, yes? And even when he does get out, my life doesn’t offer me the luxury to go running off as I please. I’m married to you and…. you need me.”

“Oh, I am SO not interested in this ball-and-chain bullcrap,” she rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine. We’re going to hire a nurse to take care of me.”

“I’m a doctor. I should be caring after you.”

“You swore to be by my side in sickness and in health. That means you _should_ be out saving the world and coming home to tell me all the exciting details.”

“Next thing, I'll have Mrs. Hudson look after you,” he shook his head as he spoke.

“That lady is a spitfire. I met her all of one time and I think she could throw me over her shoulder and carry me down the stairs better than you can.”

“I’m not having Mrs. Hudson—“ he struggled with words. “You realize we’re bickering like an old married couple.”

“I love it.” She smirked. “Do you know how old I am?”

“I saw your birth certificate.” He hesitated. “Twenty-seven,” he mumbled.

“The way you say it, it’s like you think you’re a pervert. Listen, I’m young , but I make up for it in my tenacity. And you can put that on my gravestone.”

“I, er… I’d rather put ‘Not interested in ball-and-chain bullcrap,’ actually,” John tried to joke. “I think it rather suits you.”

Mary laughed deeply, heartily. “You’re right. That’s absolutely, 1000% me.”

\--

Donovan entered Lestrade’s office and closed the door behind her. “I heard you’ve been to see the freak again.” 

Lestrade looked up from his paperwork, frowning, and then looked back down.

“You’re putting your job at risk asking the Chief to let you see him,” she said. “It’s completely irresponsible of you.”

“Listen: I have a lot of things to focus on so don't tell me anything that isn't about a case.”

Her lips tightened and she cocked her head to the side. “Fine. I made progress on my case.”

“Good for you…” he grumbled and flipped a page.

“The song _Under the Greenwood Tree_ , it’s by Donovan.”

He folded down the page and looked at her. “Donovan? Are you joking?”

“I’m thinking it’s Anderson wasting my time.”

“He’s on the Kent University murder case. He shouldn’t have time for goofing off.”

“It’s probably his stupid way of trying to get back on my good side,” she muttered.

“I don’t want him on any side of you. Not ‘til he gives me reason to trust him again.”

She moved to leave.

“Listen,” Lestrade called. “Things might be changing and I might be taken off the Kent Uni case. If that’s what happens, I don’t want you getting involved. Stick to the case you have and see if you can find any other connections. This might all be coincidence.”

“It’s not coincidence,” she said.

“And most of all, don’t put yourself in any danger. Soon as something feels off, you let me know about it. Or let Carter know.”

Though she was tempted to say “I’m not stupid,” she instead said, “Yes, sir.”

\--

Mary was asleep in her bed once more when Lestrade called. John was both eager and apprehensive to speak. He wanted news about Sherlock or his case or anything pertaining to the world outside. But at the same time, he didn’t want to pop this protective bubble of home.

He wasn’t about to let it slip to voicemail, and caught it on the third ring.

“I’ve been to see Sherlock.”

John didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. His back unclenched as he moved to sit on the stairs. He struggled to think of which question to start with.

“How was he?”

“Exactly as you’d expect: bored and being a terrible pissant, since I can’t let him work on my case anymore,” Lestrade said. “But he isn’t all paranoid or furious, so I’d say he’s in good condition at least. Been eating enough too.”

John wiped at his face and mumbled, “How did your boss react to you putting in a request to visit?”

“Blew a gasket then made Anderson go with me, which he seemed right eager to do until Sherlock started niggling at every last thing he could. To his credit, Anderson held back his more colorful remarks.”

“Does Sherlock know why he was moved?”

“Of course he bloody well knows. He says it’s not my business and then tells me how to do my job.”

“I haven’t seen Molly or Mycroft in days. Not you either, I take it?” John asked.

“Molly can’t tell me anything Mycroft doesn’t want her to, and he’s not exactly been returning my calls.”

“Of course not…” To think that Molly’s loyalty had shifted so completely… it made sense, but it wasn’t easy to follow.

“You all right?” Lestrade asked, his tone changing to something friendlier.

“I just—well, I mean…”

“I know I’m upset about all this, but you’re…. well, I’ll get this sorted out, John.”

“I know.” The doctor hesitated against his words. “It’s been, erm…”

“You’ve taken off work.”

John stared at the phone. “Are you stalking me now?”

“Sherlock’s suggestion and no, I’m not bugging your house or anything. Just seeing that you’re doing your day-to-day, but the clinic says you’re on sick leave. So you’re sick?”

“I’m not… Listen, don’t concern yourself over—“

“I _have_ to be concerned because… well…” Lestrade hesitated.

This was going to be about Sherlock. Sherlock was injured. He was beaten up by the inmates. He was on fire.

“It’s about Morstan,” Lestrade said. “I know you have a connection with him and just…”

“Yes, what about him?”

“En route to the prison, he, uh… He’s dead.”

John felt a chill run through him. “How?”

“Stole a gun and shot himself. I say that’s rubbish: he had three men watching him.”

“Do you think Moriarty had this arranged? Do you think they were sending a message?”

“I’m having my people investigate it. It’s being ruled as suicide right now, but I don’t like it.”

The only way he could take Mary to see her father now was at his viewing. Could he do that to Mary?

“What do I do?” he caught himself murmuring aloud.

“Don’t make yourself sick over this. Forget about it for now. Sleep more. Drink some beer and watch a lot of telly.”

“Fine. Just… keep me updated about… well, about everything else.”

“I will.”

\--

Mary was peacefully asleep, breathing slowly. He couldn’t wake her: didn’t have the heart to wake her. He watched her instead as the guilt and despair built.

Finally, he put a hand to her shoulder and gently prodded her awake.

She blinked up at him with bleary eyes. “You look like hell,” she mumbled.

“Yes, well…” he began. “I have some bad news.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is the disease fatal, doctor?” she tried to tease.

“It’s your father…” he began.

Mary blinked hard and tried to sit up. John helped her.

“What’s going on?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“Your father’s passed away.”

She watched him with a stony expression. When she looked down, she gritted her teeth.

“I’m a terrible person,” she murmured.

John’s forehead crinkled. “Not quite the reaction I was expecting.”

“No, I… for a long time now, I started to think that maybe I didn’t want to see him after all,” she said. “I mean, I’d planned it out up to here: move to England and track him down. But actually seeing him? I kept thinking ‘What if he’s nothing like I expect? What if he really is a madman or a killer?’ 

“I started having these dreams where he’d show up at my door to see me before I’m ready to see him. It’s why I started bolting the door at all hours – I didn’t want him to get in, to get into my life before I was ready.”

“That’s… an understandable concern, really.”

“I could’ve spent more time looking for him once I got here. I could’ve hired a detective to track him down like you did. But in reality, I don’t think I actually wanted to see him. And now it’s too late.”

\--

They stayed up late into the night, so of course the doorbell rang at half-nine in the morning. John, bleary-eyed and still in his pyjamas, opened the door to Donovan, who pushed her way inside.

“I’ve brought breakfast,” she said, raising the take-away bag as evidence.

“I—what?” John stared at the door as if it were the traitor that didn’t warn him of an oncoming attack. “What are you doing in my home? Get out of my home!”

“Greg’s worried for you, sent me here to check up.” Her eyes darted around the room, taking in information.

“I don’t need ‘checking up.’” He hurried to keep up with her as she made her way deeper into the house. “Are you his personal secretary now? Is that what they pay you for?”

She stared him down. While her height wasn’t any greater than his, she managed to make herself intimidating.

“Okay, first off, I’ve got my own case I should be focusing on. Greg’s stuck at work and he’s worried, so I’m here.”

“Owe him a favor?” Strangely, the nastier John got, the more relieved he felt. It was as though he were punching Mycroft, the police and the whole judiciary system in general.

“Let’s get one thing completely straight: Greg is my best mate. He asks me a favor, I do it. He says he’s worried, I come buy you breakfast.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that you see him as a friend.”

“You put your life on the line dozens of times with these blokes, you start to think, ‘I’m going to die next to these people.’ And then you either get the hell out, or you stay and decide, ‘I wouldn’t want to die any other way.’”

Discomfort crept across John’s face and he rubbed his forehead with a sweaty palm.

“They’re intolerable dicks half the time, but they’re the most important people in my life.” She squared her gaze on him. “You understand because you’re military. You and me – we got some things in common.”

She raised her bag and tilted her head towards the kitchen. John had to clear off an assortment of bills and miscellaneous papers from the tiny breakfast table before they set up. 

“So why are you on a separate case?” he asked. “I mean, don’t you usually work with them?”

“Greg and Simon aren’t getting on—“

“ _Simon_?” John repeated. “Is that Anderson’s name? It’s _Simon_?”

“They need to learn how to work together again,” she went on, staring at the space above John’s head like target practice. 

“Somehow I knew his name was Simon…”

“So they need to act like a team.”

“You’re nothing like a team to begin with,” John said, poking at a sausage. “Though you and Anderson act like a pack of hyenas around him.”

“I question his decisions when I think he’s doing something that could hurt us all: like trusting a consulting detective who fabricates stories—“

“He doesn’t ever fabricate—“

“He bends the situation to suit a hypothesis in his head and it all sounds plausible in the end. I don’t know if that’s master cunning or damn good luck, but Sherlock’s methods are unsatisfactory.”

“That’s why you and Anderson bully Greg about him.”

“We’re on forensics. Our job is to second-guess everything. Greg takes charge, but he’s not all knowing. Simon’s a genius, though he’s an insufferable man-child most of the time. I catch details and I never back down from anything, so I sort out the confessions and gather the evidence.

“But when Greg started getting Sherlock mixed up in cases, our whole balance was skewed. It went to worse after Sherlock faked his death and fooled everybody. Greg and Simon are fighting all the time.”

“He didn’t—yes, Sherlock lied about his death, but it was for safety. For my safety.”

“I don’t care what the reason is until I see some hard evidence.”

“You think he’s guilty – you think Rich Brook is real and that Sherlock killed him.”

Donovan poked at a plate of eggs and shook her head. “Unlike your friend, I don’t jump to any conclusions without a lot of evidence. And I mean a _lot_ of evidence.”

John bit into the sausage bitterly. 

Donovan seemed aware of the failings of her conversation, so she abruptly changed topic.

“Is your wife getting better?” she asked.

John leveled a glare at her.

“I just mean, you’re taking time off to care for her. I want her to be doing well.”

“People don’t recover from kidney failure.”

On Donovan’s rigid face, her eyebrows twitched before pinching together. “Did you know that, marrying her?”  
  


“Yes.”

“You’re lucky. I didn’t know my husband was going to get shot when he did.”

John stopped poking his food. “You have a husband?”

“ _Had_ a husband,” she corrected. “A stray bullet hit him. He went brain dead a while and then he just sort of expired. It’s like he could’ve kept going, but he wanted me to move on. That’s what I think at least.”

“Would you have… you know, taken him off life support?” John asked. His appetite was failing him.

“Never,” she said. “I’ve screwed up a lot, but when I swore ‘til death do us part,’ I was dead serious. I think on some level, Bernard knew that.”

He watched her: took in her posture. She was leaning over the table while she spoke, no pity, just a strange sort of contentment. Acceptance?

“If you took marriage so seriously, why did you get involved with Anderson?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and massaged her forehead. “My feelings for him got mixed up. I love him. I’m dedicated to him as a friend and colleague. But I had to figure that out the hard way. And along that way, I helped ruin his marriage. Not my proudest moment.”

She stabbed at a sausage. “How’s the food?” she forced out the casual question.

“Fine… Good,” John said, taking a tasteless bite. “Thank you.”

“Don’t bother. It’s what people do.”

The words rang familiar in John’s mind.


	5. Chapter 5

The phone rang in the afternoon – Lestrade. John barely had the time to put the mobile to his ear when Lestrade began shouting.

“It’s a bomb threat!”

John tensed. He looked around himself, searching for any wires. He listened for sounds of gunfire.

“Where?” Was his entire house wired to blow? He thought of the vest weaved with explosives, under the terribly hot coat as he was made to recite lines at that darkened swimming pool.

“The note. Sherlock’s stupid bloody note that he sent to Mycroft is a bomb threat and that’s why they moved him.” Several furious curses toppled from the DI’s mouth before he could stop himself.

The words didn’t quite process in John’s mind. “Impossible,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t do—“

“But he _has_ done and now they’ve put him in maximum security.” Lestrade was speaking with such force that his words were audibly garbled. John could imagine the detective wringing the neck of his mobile.

“It’s not from him. It can’t be from – oh, my god, I held it. I-I brought it to Mycroft’s office.”

He didn’t hear what Lestrade said next, but the DI grew uncomfortably quiet.

“Sherlock told me not to read it and I—I almost did. If I’d read it I could have stopped…” He felt weak all down his legs. “Why would he..?”

“I don’t know…” Lestrade sounded as upset as John should have been feeling, but the doctor was numb all over. “Sabotaging himself? He wouldn’t do that.”

“You have to ask him—“

“He won’t answer.”

“Speak to Mycroft.”

“He won’t see me,” Lestrade said. His tone shifted from sorrow to anger immediately. “I’m going to find the bloody note and get every handwriting analyst I know to dissect the damn thing to prove it ain’t his. Then I’m going to take all the paperwork to Sherlock and _beat_ him with it.”

A weak laugh bubbled at the back of John’s throat. He felt ill. He moved upstairs to check on Mary.

“I don’t even know if there’s anything we can do,” John said as he took her chalky hand and touched the ring on her finger.

“I don’t know,” Lestrade agreed. “I’m going to try everything I can think of. You too. Don’t think you aren’t of use in this.”

“If Mycroft can’t see you, he definitely won’t see me.”

“Find any connection you can. Any person you know. Just… I’ll keep on the forums and update them on what information I’m allowed.”

“Right,” John said. As soon as he hung up, he thought of her: Molly.

\--

It was a terrible idea for many reasons. First, the number for Molly he had on his phone was wildly out of date. And since she was now Mycroft’s personal zombie, made to change her name to a naiive alias, she just as likely changed her address and telephone number.

However, he was willing to embarrass himself to a complete stranger if it meant helping Sherlock. And he wasn’t going to stop at just a phone call.

He dashed down the stairs as he sorted through his contacts. He had one arm through the sleeve of his coat when he selected her name.

_Riiiiing_. He was out the door, on the pavement, with one arm out to hail a taxi.

_Riiiiiing._ As the black cab approached, John flopped into the rear seat and directed him to the Diogenes Club.

_Riiiiiing. “You have reached Molly Hooper. I’m, um, sorry I can’t be reached.”_

John mentally cursed. The voicemail said her real name, but what were the chances she even checked this thing? It would’ve been more reliable to reach a complete stranger.

_“Please leave a message after the tone.”_

“M-Molly, Molly, please get this – please… Please call me as soon as possible. This is urgent: Sherlock isn’t a threat. Don’t let Mycroft…. Please call me back.”

He ended the call and tilted his head back against the head rest. There was no use going. She probably wasn’t even at the club.

He needed to make the bed, reheat some food and attempt to wake Mary. If he couldn’t be of any help in the world, he at least wanted to make the difference at home.

When he started to tell the driver to turn around, his mobile rang.

Nervous and unsure, he looked to the screen: Molly Hooper was calling.

“Molly—“ a rush of concerns, demands, pleas and warnings rushed to topple from his mouth as he pressed the phone to his ear, but she was faster.

“John, oh my gosh, I know about the bomb threat.” She sounded nothing like her professional self: her voice was raw as though she’d spent the day crying. 

“It isn’t him—“

“Of course it isn’t! John, please, you must speak with Mycroft straightaway.”

“I want to speak to him. Do you know where he is?”

“I think so. Where are you?”

“On my way to the Diogenes Club.”

“I’ll meet you there. He won’t be far,” she said.

\--

She paced around the cab as it approached. As soon as John was out of the car, she wrapped her arms around him. He, unprepared for such an emotional greeting, patted her on the shoulder. 

She pulled back, bit her lip and patted him just as awkwardly on the arm.

“Yes, well, um,” she began, struggling with her thoughts.

“You and I need to speak to Mycroft,” John said.

“I have. It’s why he’s avoiding me.”

“Sherlock’s not a threat.”

“I know. I’m worried that Mycroft sees his own mistakes and is trying to cover them with more mistakes.”

“That sounds too human.”

“Human’s what he is,” she insisted, looking into John’s eyes. “Please, if anyone can convince him to fix things, it’s you.”

“Me? You’re the important one.” Ouch. John hadn’t realized how much it hurt to admit. She’d more than taken John’s place: she facilitated Sherlock’s safety and carried through on every demand long after Sherlock faked his death. She was his keeper and caregiver during those two years. And she still hadn’t stopped trying.

Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head. “I’ve done all I can. I gave up everything I could to see this through. But I can’t fix this one last block. Sherlock needs his freedom. Mycroft owes you a favor. You have to use that.”

John was tense all over. If Molly couldn’t do this, he wasn’t sure that he’d have any luck.

“Where is he?”

“London Library. It’s not far: just a few blocks.”

“Will you come with me?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Mycroft will leave if he sees me. He says he finds me annoying.”

\--

The Diogenes Club was, coincidentally, only four blocks from the London Library. Though expansive, the open flooring led John straight to Mycroft, who sat in an armchair in the back, for all the world like he owned the place. He was reading a book on Russian politics. John held back any comment.

“The note isn’t his,” John said, just loud enough to be sure he got Mycroft’s attention as he stood over him. “It’s not from Sherlock.”

“It seems you have some unreasonable assumptions about how I view my brother,” Mycroft kept his voice well at a whisper, though he still managed to let slip a hearty dose of disdain.

“He’s no threat!” John’s voice echoed around the near-silent chambers.

Mycroft pressed closed his book and leveled a glare on John. “Do you know why I come to this library?”

“I don’t actually care.”

“I formed the Diogenes Club to escape the ceaseless interruptions that come with my job. However, my assistants have, as of late, come to think of it as their personal lair to monopolize my attention. My final act of defiance is to choose a library as my one bit of respite because libraries,” Mycroft went on, raising his voice just loud enough to seem overpowering, “ _libraries_ are the only public place that respects silence.”

John felt distinctly uncomfortable as quiet murmurs bubbled through the building.

Then, “Theaters,” John suggested.

“Do be quiet,” Mycroft snapped. “I’d assumed you would look no further than my club to accost me.”

“I won’t stop,” John insisted, forcing his voice quieter so that it sat, teetering on the edge between a hiss and a shout. “Not until you understand that Sherlock didn’t write that note.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“I-- … er?”

“ _’Turn in the mobile as evidence or Wormwood goes up in flames_.’ Do you think my brother would be so crass?” Mycroft said.

“M-mobile? Sherlock’s mobile? The one that has Moriarty’s confession on it – someone was threatening the prison so you’d have to turn it in as evidence?”

“How would that benefit my brother in any way? You may not have a deep understanding of the law, but it doesn’t condone threats of any kind.” 

“So…. So since the demand came with a bomb threat, the mobile can’t be used as evidence?” John slowly sank into the chair across from Mycroft.

“The mobile has been turned in because I insisted upon it. And when I insist upon something, it has a way of happening.”

“You’ll – you’re going to help Sherlock’s case? Get him out of prison?” John’s heart was racing.

“I’m going to have to. The presence of Sherlock’s enemies is a strong force within the prison system. It’s stronger than expected and it wants to keep him there. I won’t give them that convenience.”

“You think Moriarty has control over the prisoners, even the guards?”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort,” Mycroft snapped. “My brother is simply exceptional at collecting enemies.”

“What of his court case?”

“It’s been moved up to next week. I just finished informing Detective Inspector Lestrade that his new duty will include keeping a firm eye on the evidence.”

John let out his held breath. He felt like his blood was flowing properly through him for the first time in weeks. “That’s it then? Sherlock will have his day in court…”

“I cannot control judge nor jury, but I’ve put my preferred team of lawyers onto his case.”

Satisfied with the answer, John’s thoughts to the future and blogging his adventures with Sherlock again. Mary was right, he decided: he could actually achieve his goals beyond simply surviving.

“John?” Mycroft really looked at him. “Sebastian Morstan’s unexpected demise was…. unfortunate. My condolences go out to you and your wife.”

It was such a human thing to say that John doubted Mycroft’s sincerity. It raised doubts about their entire conversation.

“Er…. Thank you,” John said. He was tense. He worried about Mary and Molly; about Mycroft’s words. He needed time alone, to sort his thoughts. 

Mycroft seemed content to return to his political book, but John lingered nearby. He lowered his book and raised an eyebrow. “You have more to add?”

“No,” John said at first. He turned, ready to leave, but stopped. “Yes, actually. A while back, you told me to stay away from Sherlock. Do you still think I’m a danger to him?”

Mycroft spread his hands over his book. “Now more than ever.”

John steeled his jaw. “How so?”

“You’re an enabler. You enable his genius, his thirst for adventure, his – what I can only refer to as – ‘sympathy.’ And you’ll doubtlessly enable his delusions.”

“I won’t…”

“You won’t be aware of it when you do. And that is my biggest fear in letting him out of my sight.”

“I’ll prove you wrong.” His fists weren’t shaking. He wasn’t tense: he felt dizzy like he’d suddenly grown too tall. Shaking his head, he turned to leave the library.

When John walked out of earshot, a muffled song made itself heard.

_“Stand up beside the fireplace/Take that look from off your face.”_

Mycroft’s checked his pocket. He tugged out his mobile and his icy demeanor slid over the wariness.

_“You ain’t ever gonna burn—“_

He held the phone to his ear. “Not dead yet, I see.”

“Dear Ice Man, why would I leave you so soon?” Female voice. Scottish. “That little manhunt you sent after me was so flattering, really.”

“Still using puppets to speak? How coquettish.”

“Just wanted to send… my love. And remind you that I’m very near. In fact, I’d say I’m closer than ever.”

Mycroft’s lips parted in disgust. He turned the phone off and stuffed it in his pocket.

Leaving the Russian politics book behind, he made his way straight to the exit.

\--

“Why is she not here yet?” John paced the bedroom nearly one week to the day after his last contact with Mycroft. He hesitated as he passed Mrs. Hudson. “She’s supposed to be here.”  
  


“Will you put on the belt already?” Mrs. Hudson held it out for him for the fifth time.

He finally took it. “If we’re going to have this nurse here in an ongoing way, I want some kind of proof that she won’t show up late every time.”

“Mary and I will straighten her out when she gets here. Now hurry.”

The compact television at the foot of the bed buzzed with life. _“… gas leak reported at Kew Gardens Station. It’s currently under investigation.”_

“What did it say?” John asked, hovering by Mary’s side.

“It’s not important,” Mary said, ushering him with a hand signal.

“Never mind it,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, thrusting a tie at him. “Out you go. Out the door.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave until the nurse arrives.”

“I’ll watch Mary until you’re back – help her in whatever way I can. It’ll be fine,” Mrs. Hudson, who was never a mother, spoke exactly like one.

“Your friend’s waiting for you,” Mary reminded him. “We can handle things. Just go.”

“I’m sorry to make you wait here,” John said to Mrs. Hudson.

“I don’t care about a _bloody_ court case,” she snapped, sending John reeling. “I just want Sherlock back.”

“I-I…” John didn’t have words.

“Now go cheer him on for the both of us. And do tell me if he opens his big mouth.”

John chuckled, albeit helplessly. “I warned him not to.”

“Has that ever worked?”

“Certainly not.” He kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and leaned down to kiss Mary goodbye.

It was a quick peck, but Mary was having none of that. She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and tugged him down for a lingering kiss. 

He hesitated before pulling back and adjusted his tie to avoid looking right at Mrs. Hudson. “Heh…” he started. “Behave.”

“Only around Mrs. Hudson. Now get that taxi before it leaves you behind.” 

\--

Weeding through a herd of t-shirt clad “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” fans, John made his way to the bench behind the defense. Molly, already on the bench and with an empty seat saved for him, nodded a greeting before her mobile buzzed. She barely glanced at the message before carefully typing a response.

“Mycroft,” she explained. “He wants every detail and it hasn’t started yet.”

“Mm, God forbid he show his support in person.”

“The implications would be unfortunate.”

“You mean he might find he actually has emotions?”

Molly offered him a patient look, as if he’d badmouthed a disliked member of her family.

“It’s the publicity he’s avoiding, really,” she explained after clicking the “send” button. “I’m lucky he’s let me here.”

John’s lips twitched as he watched his friend. “I’m glad he has.”

“Me too.” She smiled, a secret shared between them. Then, her phone buzzed. “Really!”

The doors swung open. Sherlock, clad in his preferred black suit, was led inside with his team of lawyers flanking him on both sides. 

Camera phones clicked, some people cheered. He walked to his seat with the confidence of a rock star.

When his gaze landed on John and Molly, a real smile actually slipped across his tight face. Molly was still texting, so John tapped her with his elbow.

She dropped the phone, but caught sight of Sherlock and grinned at him. The former consulting detective had to fight back a larger smile.

The entire room rose for the judge and listened to opening statements from both teams of lawyers. There were a dozen counts against Sherlock.

Three days into the proceedings, the prosecutor asked to cross-examine the defendant. With an overconfident smirk, Sherlock approached the stand and opened his mouth…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out for the final story, "The Tunnel of Fear" around December 2013!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this story, please comment and share with a friend!
> 
> (You'll notice I gave up on the British spelling of words. Feel free to Britpick, because it encourages me to learn!)


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